


learning to live with ghosts

by labeledbones



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-11
Updated: 2018-03-11
Packaged: 2019-03-30 01:12:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13939386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/labeledbones/pseuds/labeledbones
Summary: And just like that he wakes up in New York, alone, freezing, still exhausted.Timmy back in New York with CMBYN press done. Lots of texting and angst. Plus Timmy/Saoirse friendship stuff because I love them very much.





	learning to live with ghosts

And just like that he wakes up in New York, alone, freezing, still exhausted. He checks the time on his phone, 5:47 AM, and his brain supplies the time in L.A. even though he didn’t ask. 

He rolls over to face the window, the sky that cold dark blue of pre-dawn winter, the buildings dark except for a few lit windows. When he’d gotten out of the car last night in front of his building, he’d stepped right into a pile of grey slush. An abrupt reminder of how winter is here: relentless, damp, your bones never quite warming up all the way, even when you were sweating on a crowded 1 train there was still a chill. 

His phone makes a soft buzzing sound from where it's lost itself under the covers. He digs it out. A text from Armie: _if i’m this tired, why the fuck can’t i sleep?_

He texts back: _yeah, i’m awake too._

And just this, just being awake with him from the other side of the country, gives him a feeling of warmth, connection. Even their circadian rhythms are out of sync in an in sync kind of way. 

They should be in Japan right now. Or, on the plane there at least. The two of them asleep next to each other. Armie with his eye mask on. Timmy with his neck pillow. 

Even after dozens of flights, he still found flying with Armie romantic. He always felt like time didn’t exist when they were in the air together, like the rules of life on the ground didn’t apply, like all those hours were spent in some sort of limbo where they could love each other quietly. 

And, even after dozens of flights, he still got nervous. Eventually the nerves were contained to just take off and landing, but there were still moments when he thought they would die together. He thought he wouldn’t mind that so much. To die, gripping Armie’s hand as their plane went down somewhere over the Atlantic. When he told Armie about this, after Elizabeth had given him half a Xanax during an especially turbulent flight, Armie had tilted his head back and laughed, asked if he was talking to Timmy or Elio right now. 

They aren’t on a plane together though. They’re on opposite coasts. With no plans to see each other. Not that they won’t see each other, but he’s used to having it actually scheduled for him well in advance. He feels a little queasy with not knowing when he’ll see Armie's face again. 

When Armie asked if he was okay canceling the Asia press stuff, he lied. He shrugged and said, “If you’re not up for it, we shouldn’t do it.” Because he knew Armie needed to stop for a while. He knew Armie wanted to be home for more than a week at a time. He knew Armie was tired, growing moodier with every additional event they had to attend. 

And when Armie said, “I just think it’s over, you know? It’s done,” he pretended Armie was just talking about the press for the movie and not anything else. He pretended his heart didn’t immediately splinter just a little, enough that he knew that crack would keep growing, slowly, steadily. 

“Okay,” he said, nodding. “Yeah. Fin.” 

Armie laughed and let out a breath, “Thank god.” 

Timmy didn’t feel thankful or relieved. He felt lost. He felt like he’d just been thrown off the side of a boat into open waters, no land in sight.

And now he’s lying in his bed which he hasn’t slept in in months — always opting for a hotel whenever he was briefly in New York, or opting to sleep in his old room at his parents’ place — and he’s never felt less at home. 

The sheets on this bed are new, but they smell stale with disuse. They feel stiff against his skin. The room itself has the cold, empty feeling of a space that hasn’t been properly lived in. He’d moved and then immediately gone off traveling for work so his stuff is half unpacked, half sitting in boxes. His own life here, his actual life, carelessly abandoned so he could build another life, all over the world, with Armie. 

He starts another text: _i’m looking at this box of books i never unpacked and realizing i have no idea who i am without you_

He deletes it. 

He texts Saoirse instead: _where are you?_ Which is how he starts most conversations with her, never knowing where in the world she’ll be, but always hoping she’ll be somewhere nearby.

While he’s waiting for her response, Armie texts him: _i got up and went to sleep in the guest room thinking it might smell like you._

And before he can even process this, another text: _it doesn’t, should have told the housekeeper not to wash the sheets after the last time you were here._

He presses his face into his pillow until he can’t breathe and then pulls it back out. He texts back: _what do i smell like?_

Immediately: _idk, weed? greasy hair? that expensive shit you’re always dabbing on your neck? the best fucking thing in the world?_

He screenshots this particular chain of texts and sends it to Saoirse even though she still hasn’t responded to his first text. He adds: _help._

He gets out of bed even though it’s still dark out and even though his bones groan in protest. He knows there’s not going to be any more sleep for him this morning. 

He pulls on sweatpants and a shirt, slipping his phone into his pocket, and walks out into the living room. He’d picked this apartment mainly for the big bay window in the living room. At the time, he’d imagined all the time he’d spend sitting in his living room, watching the city, drinking coffee, reading scripts. He’d been delusional. Reality was he moved in and two days later was gone for another month. 

He remembers one of the few nights he actually spent here after moving in, bringing Armie back after some dinner where they’d both gotten too drunk. He’d been eager to show him his first apartment that was just his, no roommates. Armie had smiled at him in the cab, “You’re such a grown up,” with his hand on Timmy’s face, not caring what the cab driver thought. 

He’d given Armie the grand tour which took all of thirty seconds and then Armie was kissing him, pressing him back against one of the window panes, his hand finding Timmy hard in his dress pants. 

They’d fucked by the living room window with all the lights on, not caring that people could definitely see them, not when Armie was on his knees in front of him. It wasn’t his original intended use for the window, but at the time he’d thought it was just as good, even as the cold air seeped through the glass to his bare skin. 

Now, he sits in the chair he’d bought specifically to put in the window’s little nook. He puts his feet up on the edge of the window and tries not to think about that particular night anymore. He feels his phone go off in his pocket.

It’s Saoirse: _i’m here._ And then: _he’s right. you do smell good._

He can’t fight the grin that spreads across his face. He texts her: _define here._

_new york :)_

He is overwhelmingly relieved at this: _come over._

And then he finally looks back at Armie’s text and responds: _you asleep yet?_ And: _i can send you a shirt i haven’t washed if you’re that desperate for eau de chalamet._

Outside the window, the sky is turning pink and orange. He can see the sun reflecting off the windows across from him as it starts to rise. He’s seen the sun come up in so many different places over the last year, and it always takes him by surprise. How slow and beautiful it can be. How quiet everything seems. 

Saoirse: _now? it’s not even daylight yet, timmy. i’m still in in bed in my jam jams._

_whenever,_ he texts her. _we can go to that dumpling place you love._

He starts to feel good for the first time today, thinking about Saoirse and warm soup dumplings and taking a walk in the park after, Saoirse stopping to pet every dog she sees. Being around her always grounds him, brings him back to himself. 

_you know the way to my heart, timmy tim. meet there at 1?_ She follows this with one of each heart emoji. 

He texts her back a thumbs up and his own row of hearts.

In the kitchen, he remembers that he doesn’t actually have anything in the cabinets and if he wants coffee, he’ll have to get dressed and go outside. He’s weighing his options, trying to get motivated enough to take a shower, when his phone buzzes again. 

_still awake. that offer is pretty tempting. i’d rather just have you though._

He groans and hears it echo off all the emptiness in the apartment. _it’s been a day,_ he texts back, like he isn’t also the saddest person in the world right now. 

_it’s different though, isn’t it?_

Timmy falls onto the couch. _yeah._

_we should’ve gone to tokyo._

On the street outside, someone yells, just once, plaintive and solitary. Timmy feels like it came from his own throat. 

_you didn’t even ask me. you just called it off._

_i know. i’m sorry. i’m just so tired._

Timmy thinks of all those nights with him, when they would lie down next to each other, exhausted in yet another hotel room, and try to keep their heavy-lidded eyes open as long as they could, just watching each other’s faces. He’d never felt a peace with someone like that before, and has yet to find it anywhere else. 

_me too. but i think i’d never sleep again if it meant more time with you._

_okay, elio._

_fuck you._

He stands up and leaves his phone behind on the couch cushion. The conversation isn’t productive, isn’t helping anything. He feels like they’re just circling and circling, not coming to any solution. He doesn’t know what a solution would be. He could move to Los Angeles. He could drop everything and just go. It wouldn’t really be that difficult. It would even make sense. He’d been idly looking at real estate listings out there the last few months and not telling anyone about it. He’d even gone to see a couple houses. But the thought of buying a house in L.A. at 22 was so terrifying to him that he couldn’t commit to it. 

He’d floated just the idea of it by Saoirse once. “What if I moved to L.A.?” Not telling her about the late night internet searches, the financial calculations he’d done already, how he’d only looked at places within two miles of Armie’s house. 

She’d just looked at him. “If this is about Armie, then no,” she said. “If this is something you actually want for you, then maybe.” 

And he’d sighed loudly in the small dive bar they were getting day drunk in, and dropped his head in his hands. 

She put a hand in his hair, fingers gentle against his scalp. “I know you think you and him can somehow make everything work perfectly,” she said. “But I think you need to be realistic. He has a wife, kids.” 

He turned and looked at her, beautiful in the dim bar lights. “I wish you and me could,” and he cut himself off at the warning that flashed briefly in her eyes. “I just wish I could love him less.” 

“I know, Pony,” she said, putting her arm around his shoulder and pulling him closer. 

When he gets out of the shower, he has five texts from Armie:

_sorry._  
_you still there?_  
_i think i’m finally about to fall asleep._  
_i’ll see you soon, i promise._  
_timmy?_

He doesn’t text him back. He lets him sleep. 

Outside the restaurant, Saoirse yelps when she sees him and throws her arms around him. “I love when you dress like a fucking lesbian,” she says, tugging at the collar of his flannel and nudging the toe of one of his Doc Martens with her own boot.

He laughs and rocks her back and forth in his arms before pulling back and looking at her. “It’s so good to see you, Sersh. You have no idea,” he says, wanting to collapse against her, but pulling the door to the restaurant open for her instead. 

They eat as many dumplings as they can until they can barely move, and she tells him stories about her family’s various reactions to her losing another Oscar (“Mam says her dog is more likely to win an Oscar at this point.”), and he laughs from places deep inside of him, and he doesn’t mention Armie even when she asks point blank, just shakes his head and says, “It’s not important,” and she rolls her eyes at him, but understands, because she always understands, and he changes the subject, asking her about the girl she’s been sort of maybe seeing (“She’s a bit odd, but the orgasms are incredible, I have to say.”) and new projects she’s been looking into.

When they leave the restaurant, he reaches for her hand as his phone goes off in his jacket pocket. She holds onto his arm with her other hand and leans her head against his shoulder. “I’m very glad we’re friends, Timmy,” she says quietly. 

He smiles and kisses the top of her head. He feels full, happy, found. He feels like himself again. “Me, too,” he says, pulling her across the street when the light changes. 

He finally checks his phone when they’re on the subway platform waiting for the 6 train. 

“Armie?” she asks, peering over at his phone. 

He nods. “He says he dreamed about me,” he says flatly. 

She looks up at his face. “I can’t tell if you find that romantic or if you want to murder him,” she says. 

“Both?” He shakes his head, shrugs, pockets his phone again.

“You’re not going to respond?” She sounds shocked. “I’ve never once seen you not immediately leap to attention when Armie says something to you.” 

“I think I just need to… _not_ right now, you know?” 

The train comes roaring into the station and the wind blows their hair around both of their faces as they stand there looking at each other. 

He lets her sit in the one available seat on the train, standing over her. She reaches up and tugs at the bottom of his jacket. “I’m very impressed,” she says, raising her voice above the sound of the train rattling along the track. 

He doesn’t say anything in response just looks at her steadily as the train carries them downtown, as his phone buzzes again in his pocket, a message from Armie somehow making it to him even underground, but he won’t look at it, not now. Right now he just wants to exist on his own, with his friend, in his city. 

He’ll check it later that night, a little bit drunk, back in his bed. It will say: _i think we both knew the crazy high we’ve been on couldn’t last forever._ And this won’t make him sad, it won’t break his heart. 

He will text back: _okay, but this isn’t an ending. it’s just a pause._

And Armie’s response will be quick: _i’m okay with that. just don’t disappear on me._

And he will say: _promise._ And he’ll mean it for Armie and he’ll mean it for himself, and then he’ll sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "Laid Low" by The Naked and the Famous.


End file.
